


New York (The Shake Up)

by fiendingforthesunshine



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Police, Child Abuse, Clint Barton & Phil Coulson Friendship, Cop Steve, Crimes & Criminals, Former solider Phil Coulson, Foster Care, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, No Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Phil Coulson, Protective Steve Rogers, References to PTSD, Russian Mafia, Teenaged Clint Barton, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendingforthesunshine/pseuds/fiendingforthesunshine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil moves in next door to the most dangerous drug dealer in New York City. Phil accidentally makes friends with the foster kid, Clint, who does drug runs for the most dangerous drug dealer in New York City. Phil gets involved, as he always does. </p><p>Steve is just going to start wrapping the people he cares about in bubble wrap and hope for the best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Phil is 26 and Clint is 17. Their relationship is strictly platonic and/or brotherly. I will add more tags as they become relevant. This will probably get violent. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Enjoy!

“Phil, are you sure about moving out here?” 

Steve must’ve asked that question at least three times since he and Phil began unloading Phil’s hatchback in front of the 5-story red brick walk-up in Harlem. Phil had signed a lease for a studio apartment on the 3rd floor a week ago and his friend, Steve Rogers, was the only one he could call on such short notice to help him move at 9am on a Tuesday in the middle of September. 

Insert lie here - Steve Rogers isn’t the only one he could call; he’s just always the first one Phil calls in any of these situations. 

Phil drops the box he was pulling out of the car onto the ground and shuts the hatch to reveal Steve, two bags over his shoulders, his ever-concerned face looking across the street where a few men were loitering outside of the corner store, smoking and talking too low for Steve and Phil to hear. 

Phil would usually make a joke here about how Steve's job at NYPD has turned him into a paranoid idiot but it's almost not worth the breath.

“Steve, it’s a good place for a good price and the VA is covering half the expenses,” the car alarm chirped once as Phil locked it and picked up the box he’d dropped to start heading to the doorway of the building, “I’m not going to find a better deal unless your Midtown landlord can start slashing prices, which we both know isn’t going to happen.” 

Steve sighed, “I could ask if there’s anything available, Stark is a good guy when he wants to be.” 

“I was kidding, Steve.” 

Phil elbowed his way through the front door of the building just as one of his new neighbors ducked under the box Phil was balancing, running out of the building. 

He’s young, probably fifteen or sixteen, a backpack over his shoulders; he’s late for school if that’s where he’s headed, but not late enough to not turn around and apologize, barely missing Steve as he walks backwards down the steps onto the sidewalk.

“Sorry, man, thought the door was clear!” the kid is already halfway down the block before he even finishes his sentence, turning around and breaking out into a run as he crossed the street.

Phil shot a look at Steve, “Neighborhood can’t be that bad, can it? The teenagers at least apologize over here.” 

“He was probably running away with stolen property,” Steve huffed, starting up the stairs. 

“Always on the job, huh, Officer Rogers?” 

Steve didn’t respond as they passed the landing for the second floor apartments and continued to Phil’s floor. Despite how early it is, fair amounts of people are already out in the hallways. A few ladies, clad in hotel maid uniforms, walk past Phil as he crosses the landing and giggle to themselves as Steve walks past, rearranging the bags on his shoulders to give them more space on the stairs. A few more teenagers hurried down, darting between the obstacles Steve and Phi and their boxes create on the narrow staircase. 

Once they reached Phil’s door Phil balanced the box between his side and the wall as he unlocked the door. Steve sighed and dropped the bags in the doorway as Phil walked in further to set the box on top of the kitchen table that thankfully came with the apartment. 

“I’m just saying,” Steve stared, “If you need someone to install some security here, I’ll do it free of charge.” 

“Why would I install security when I can just call your personal line down at the station and have you across town in minutes?” Phil grinned as he shoves the box towards the middle of the table, bumping up against a few other things they’d brought up earlier. Phil straightened up and twirled his keys around his index finger, “Let’s go get some breakfast from that bakery down the street, I’m paying.”

\--

Breakfast turned into brunch and very quickly it was nearing noon and Phil and Steve still had half a car to unpack. 

“You’re lucky I’ve been working third shift for the past two weeks,” Steve mumbled behind a box full of what Phil thinks is books, halfway between the bottom floor and the third floor.

“Nothing to do with luck, you’ve been working third shift this entire month and your insomnia doesn’t let you sleep past eight in the morning no matter what anyway.” 

“Ah,” Steve sighed, “So you’re just taking advantage of the fact that I’m a good friend with a sleep disorder?” 

Phil cackled as they reach the third floor landing and head down the hallway, “Exactly.” 

When they got into the apartment Steve set his box down in the doorway as Phil looked at his watch and then around the small studio apartment, “Hey, if you want you can go home, see if you can catch some sleep before you go into work, I’ve got everything under control here, I think.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Phil nodded, “It’s probably just a few more trips form the car, I’ve got it.” 

Steve looked around and shrugged, “Alright, man,” he walked over to clasp hands with Phil and lean in for a hug, “Call me if anything comes up, I’ve got Stark on speed dial.” 

Phil groaned and pulled away from the hug; pushing Steve towards the door, “Go home! I’ll see you later!”

Once Steve had left Phil started down the stairs to get his next set of boxes and bags from the car. 

Phil found a sort of petty enjoyment from picking on Steve, acting like he’s got a plethora of friends and people to talk to when honestly, Phil doesn’t have hardly anyone else in his life that he could call on to show up. 

Even before Phil left for basic training Steve was the only person Phil could call on and know for a fact that he would show up. They’d grown up through school together since second grade and when college proved too costly for both of them Steve was right by Phil’s side when he said he wanted to enlist. Phil was by Steve’s side as much as he could’ve been when Steve decided to leave the military and join the NYPD. 

In the military Phil had a platoon, a group of guys he could call family in all but blood but Phil is alone again. 

Phil is alone again and he doesn’t want to be reminded of why.

Alone again, moving into an apartment in the middle of a neighborhood he didn’t grow up in with no one to call now that Steve was heading off to work. 

These were the type of thoughts Phil’s VA therapist had called ‘dangerous patterns’. 

When Phil is finally able to drag himself out of his own brain long enough to look around he’s out on the sidewalk standing beside his car, staring down the street, leading a young mother to stare at him with concern before pulling her child down the street a little quicker. 

Phil unlocked his car and pulled out a box to take upstairs. 

\--

“Hey, you know it’s the kid’s birthday today, right?” Jacques announced to the room, leaned against the back of the couch, his arms spread across the top. Two young women, probably mid-twenties if Clint had to guess, were curled up on the couch on either side of Jacques. Clint’s least favorite associate of Jacques, Buck, was in the lazy boy, leaned over the coffee table, creating long skinny lines of cocaine on the fake wood.

Clint’s birthday was actually two days ago but that doesn’t really matter. Jacques’ wife Maria gave him $17 dollars for each of his seventeen years and let him help cook dinner, that’s about the best he could ask for, given the state of things.

Maria worked as a night shift nurse at Mount Sinai, in part because she would take any shift as long as she could continue being a nurse, which was always her dream, and part because Jacques always did his business at night, and she didn’t want to be around when he was working. 

Maria was nice but Maria also turned the other check more often than Clint would appreciate.

Clint had been living with Maria and Jacques for the past two years and really, it wasn’t that bad. Maria, when she was home, was everything Clint always assumed a mother should be. She helped Clint with his homework, she taught him how to cook, clean and wash his clothes so he wouldn’t be ‘a useless scoundrel’ like Jacques. 

If someone were to ask why Jacques can’t even wash a plate, Jacques would tell them he’s got more important things to do while he was giving them a good punch to the gut. Jacques was a drug dealer, part of one of the biggest drug rings in New York City, all the money and power a man like him could want but the only thing he wanted out of all of that was Maria and until Clint came along he wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping her. (Clint guessed it had to do with the extra women Jacques tends to find on the side, but that’s not Clint’s business).

It was better than Clint’s previous foster home where he spent most of his time locked in the basement. 

It was also a drastic improvement from Clint’s biological family, but that was something Clint tried to keep as far away from his conscious thoughts as possible.

Clint continued trying to focus on his math homework as the smoke of the room continued to curl around the light he was using at the kitchen table a few feet away. Not that Clint cared about his schoolwork all that much but Maria stopped being a kind and gracious woman after she got called to the school one too many times when Clint first came to her and Clint’s spent the past two years trying to redeem himself.

Clint would rather be anywhere but inside the apartment but the weather had taken a turn for the worse while he was in school and poured buckets of rain on him while he was walking back home. None of the other kids his age from the neighborhood would be out in this weather and the bodega owner across the street told Clint he wasn’t allowed to be there without buying something anymore. 

“How do you know that? You don’t even remember his damn name half the time,” Buck laughed as he focused on straightening out his next line of cocaine on the corner of the coffee table. 

“The social worker sent a card or some shit, she only sends ‘em on holidays and his birthday, how old are you kid?” 

Clint looked up from his notebook, “I’m 17.” 

Buck wasn’t that far off in his assessment of Jacques’ knowledge of Clint but Clint was pretty sure that Maria mentioned Clint’s birthday to him more than once the past few days. Jacques also does remember Clint’s name a good chunk of the time, sometimes it’s ‘Dipshit’ but most of the time it’s Clint.

One of the girls who’d been leaned up against Jacques got up from the couch and swayed over to Clint. She reached into her purse and handed him a twenty-dollar bill, “Girl, he doesn’t need your money,” Jacques cackled as the other girl he’d brought home curled in closer to his other side, a cigarette hanging loosely between her fingers. 

“It’s his birthday, baby, everyone gets a present on their birthday, right?” she leaned down, her cleavage becoming more prominent as she gave Clint a kiss on the cheek, sliding the bill onto his notebook.

“Well I got a present for the kid,” Jacques looked up and motioned for Clint to come over to him, “Come here, man, we got a run to your favorite client tonight, wanna take it?” 

Clint closed his notebook and drug himself up from his chair, “It’s raining.” 

“And…?” Jacques pulled out a brown paper bag from under the coffee table and set it on top, “Our favorite client still needs their fix; you got a jacket, don’t you? Go get it and take this package down to Brighton Beach, make sure we don’t get stiffed this time.”

Clint withheld his groan and took the package, ignoring the leer from Buck and the hooded, doped up eyes of the women at Jacques’ side. He left his math book on the table and bent down to take out the rest of his school items so the paper bag would fit inside without getting crushed.

“Kid,” Jacques called as Clint was zipping up his backpack to sling it over his shoulder, “Get back here before midnight, the pigs have been looking for kids out past curfew this week and we ain’t bailing you out if you get caught.” 

Clint offered a two-fingered salute over his shoulder on his way out the door. 

\--

Clint had been running errands and playing lookout for Jacques since probably the second day Clint had been living with him and Maria. He’d had a long time to decide what kind of ‘clients’ he liked and what kind he didn’t. They could easily be sorted into those groups by just a few traits. 

The kind he didn’t like had pointed guns at him, gotten him chased over twenty city blocks by the cops, and on one special occasion a client on this list had set her idle hand on Clint’s thigh and let her hand slide up to his crotch the entire time she was checking her delivery, not allowing him to move until she was… satisfied. 

The kind Clint did like were such because they mostly left him alone. Or they had a beautiful and very dangerous teenager daughter that Clint could never take his eyes off of when he was running a delivery. The Romanov family was, hands down, Clint’s favorite client because they had everything Clint looked for. They left him alone, trait number one, and Natasha Romanov the red-headed, tall, and scary-quiet sixteen-year-old daughter of the head honcho of the Romanov family, trait number two, always answered the door when Clint knocked. 

When she opened the door this time, Clint smiled, pulling off his jacket hood and tugging on his backpack strap, “Got a delivery for your Dad.” 

Natasha looked Clint up and down. The walk from his apartment to the subway wasn’t very far but the sidewalks were now minefields of puddles and the way from the subway to the Romanov building was much longer and the rain seemed get stronger as the walk went on. Clint’s sneakers were soaked through and his jeans were wet up to his knees. 

“You wanna keep your dad waiting just ‘cause I’m soaking wet? It’s raining outside, Natasha, what am I supposed to do?” 

Natasha huffed and moved out of the doorway to let Clint in, “Get an umbrella next time. He’s in the study.” 

Clint flourished a deep bow towards Natasha before he walked towards the study doors that were to the left of the large lounge area. 

Natasha followed at a distance, as she usually did, until they reached the door. Clint made it a point not to touch anything in the house except what he came in with and what he left with, besides, Clint didn’t mind getting more of a chance to see Natasha as they wait for the door to open. 

A voice called from behind the door in Russian, Clint had learned enough by now that they were asking who was there. Natasha answered and was given a short response in reply. 

“He’s finishing a meeting, just a minute.” 

Clint nodded, mostly to himself, balancing back and forth on the balls of his feet, “My birthday was the other day, I’m seventeen now.” 

Natasha shot a glare at Clint before mumbling, “Happy birthday, I guess.” 

“We should go out and celebrate,” Clint nudged. 

“No.” 

Clint laughed and shrugged his shoulders just as the door opens, “Worth a shot.” 

Clint doesn’t miss the entertained side-eye Natasha gave him as he walked into the room. 

“Mr. Romanov,” Clint pulled his backpack off his shoulders and began to unzip the pocket that held the package Jacques had given him, “Swordsman asked me to deliver this to you.” 

Clint handed the package to one of Romanov’s men, pulling his backpack back onto his shoulders and putting his hands in his pockets while he waits for Natasha’s father to look up from his newspaper to examine the paper bag. 

“You’re dripping on my floor,” the older man stated, not bothering to look up at his associate or Clint as he looked inside the bag and pulled out the Ziploc bag holding his drugs and the piece of stationary that Jacques always steals from Maria to write his payments on. 

“It’s raining,” Clint responded while looking around the room. There’s a third man standing near the window, possibly Mr. Romanov’s previous meeting. He seems uninterested in the transaction but Clint can tell he’s at least half listening to the conversation. 

Either Romanov doesn’t find Clint’s response worthy of his answer or he’s too busy counting out his bills, there’s no more conversation to be had until Clint is handed his paper bag back with the weight of the money inside. 

“Tell him I expect another delivery in two weeks, and get an umbrella or something, you look like a drowned rat.” 

Clint shrugged as he put the money back into his bag and slung it over his shoulder, “I’ll let him know.” 

When Clint was lead out of the study the only person in the hallway with him is Romanov’s associate. Natasha is gone and has been replaced with a few young men sitting in the lounge, chatting to each other in what Clint can only assume is Russia. Their glances follow Clint as the older man leads Clint through the house.

The man followed him to the door and also kindly slammed it behind Clint when he stepped out. 

Clint heads to the subway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go [here](http://showme-thesun.tumblr.com) if you want to see my tumblr. I don't post a ton but it's funny sometimes? And if you sent me prompts I might write stuff for you? Possibly? :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not super happy with this chapter but I think its good enough to put out. I also expanded this story to 4 chapters mostly because I don't think I can finish what I want to finish in 3 so, a gift! For all of you! Thanks for reading!

Phil wakes up in the middle of the desert, the sand getting into his eyes, nose and mouth. He pulls the covers off his legs and looks around for his platoon, his men. He can hear them but the wind is whipping the sand around so much that he can’t see any of them. 

They’re calling for him and he can’t do anything about it. His feet burn when they touch the ground, it must be midday because he’s already sweating even though he’s only in his boxers and the covers are gone, discarded on the other side of the bed. 

He can’t even call for his team, can’t even call to tell them that he’s all right, that he’s on his way. His mouth is full of sand. 

Phil feels around for his canteen but there’s nothing to be found, he’s not even sitting on a bed anymore he’s sitting on the ground, the sand smacking him in the legs and stomach like millions of little needles. 

The sand keeps coming, his men keep yelling (farther away now), and all Phil can do is wrap himself up tight, covering his face as best as he can as the sand nearly swallows him up whole. 

 

Just as the sand is about to bury him alive Phil opened his eyes one last time to find himself back in his studio apartment in Harlem. 

He’s on the floor wrapped up in his covers, sucking in as much air as he can without starting to cough in a panic. Phil can still feel the sand in his teeth and over his tongue and his breathing won’t slow down. 

“Okay… okay,” Phil tried to control the level of his voice, it sounds like he’s screaming at himself. He takes in another breath, holds it for a few seconds and coughs as he blows it out. 

“Okay, Phil. Reality test,” deep breath. 

“My name is Phil Coulson,” Phil looked around the apartment but he can’t trust his eyes, not really, “I live in Harlem now, I moved two days ago,” two more slow and deep breaths, “My friend Steve helped me move, my neighbors had sex last night and nearly broke my wall and my kitchen sink is already leaking.” 

Phil still feels like he’s about to burst into tears but the lines of his apartment aren’t blurring and he isn’t seeing anything crazy. The clock on his nightstand says it’s only 2am and Phil knows he isn’t getting any more sleep tonight. 

\--

Phil has to stop three times as he walked to the Midtown police precinct. 

The first time it’s because he’s pretty sure he saw someone planting an IED on trashcan (the man was actually drunk… really drunk. Phil ended up being more impressed than panicky). 

The second time he’s dodging his way through more drunk partiers leaving the clubs and one of them grabs him by the jacket. Phil is halfway to pulling his gun (his gun that they took from him when he failed his psych eval for the second time) on the guy until the guy apologizes and stumbles away, leaving Phil to stare at his empty hand. 

The third time is just because Phil has needed a good cry for a while and the street was empty. 

By the time he walks into the station he’s fine, thank you very much. 

The young police officer at the main desk, however, looks like she’s about to fall out of her chair any second due to lack of sleep. She smiled and refrained from rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, “Good morning, sir. What can I help you with?” 

Phil tried to smile too but nothing would change the fact that he looks like he’s probably homeless and just looking for a place to sleep off whatever he’s been doing all night, “I’m looking for Steve Rogers, he’s an officer here.”

“Is this related to a case?” 

Phil shook his head, “No. I’m his friend, Phil Coulson. I couldn’t sleep and figured I’d catch breakfast with him after his shift ends.” 

“He just came in from patrol about twenty minutes ago, I’ll go tell him you came in.” 

Phil nodded and sat down in the chair closest to the door, pulling out his phone. Steve had forced him to get a smart phone, specifically a Starkphone, and had programmed himself into Phil’s emergency contacts. 

He’d also downloaded a boatload of puzzle games for Phil to play because he knew how much Phil liked to occupy himself with mindless shiny things. 

Phil had gone through five levels of Mahjong by the time Steve walked out, with Bucky Barnes in tow. 

Bucky and Phil weren’t best friends nor were they best friends now but since at least second grade Steve had been desperate for the two of them to like each other. 

Bucky and Steve lived in the same building and all three of them went to the same schools growing up. After a few years of Steve separately hanging out with Bucky and Phil he decided that they would all hang out together and it’s hard not to want to make Steve happy.

It was only when Steve and Phil went off to join the army that Phil even started paying attention to Bucky. He was a decent guy, always willing to get down and get dirty if it was necessary and with Steve, it was often necessary. 

They traded letters while Phil was overseas and whenever Phil got a leave and Steve couldn’t he made sure to take the time to get a beer with Bucky and update him on everything that was going on. 

Technically, Phil guessed, that means he had two friends that were still around.

Phil stood up and slid his phone into his back pocket, waiting for them as they clocked out at the desk. They were both in civilian clothes and both looked about as tired as Phil felt. 

Steve offered a small wave at Phil after he finished signing out, and Bucky smiles wide, “How did I know that you’d eventually come and see us?” 

Phil shrugged and went over to give both of them a hug, “Couldn’t sleep, figured you two would want to go get breakfast at that diner a few blocks down.” 

Steve and Bucky shared a look. Bucky looks absolutely dead tired but Phil knows that Steve won’t go home to sleep and Bucky will follow Steve anywhere. 

In less than a minute they’re headed two blocks south to the diner Phil had mentioned.

“You guys seem a little frazzled, what’s the case?” Phil asked as they settle into the booth at the diner across the street from the station. 

Steve gave Phil a long-suffering glance, letting it go long enough to smile at the waitress who put a pot of coffee down on the table with cream and sugar next to it, and then turning back to Phil, “You know we can’t talk about active cases to civilians.” 

Phil looked around the empty diner save for the waitress and the cook, on the other side of the room, “Like they’re listening, just tell me.” 

“Sorry to ruin your game, but you’re a civilian now too, Coulson,” Barnes kicked his feet under the table, aimed at Phil and laughs, pouring coffee into his mug halfway and filling the rest of it with the creamer. 

“Yeah, a civilian who knows more about police activity than the police on most occasions,” Phil took the coffee pot next, filling it to the brim, “Just tell me.” 

“It’s not even my case, I’m just helping when I don’t have anything else to do,” Steve mumbled, looking around to find out where the waitress and the cook are, “It’s Bucky’s case.” 

Phil smiled and looks at Bucky, “So… I think maybe you need to go wash your hands of all that greasy patrol work while Bucky and I place our orders, you want your usual, right?” 

Phil and Bucky wait until Steve has dragged himself out of the booth and then wait again until their breakfast orders are put in before they start talking. 

Bucky takes a long sip of his coffee before starting, “The city created a task force a little while ago to go after some of the bigger mafia groups in the city, mostly since guns and gangs don’t want to handle these things.” 

Phil nodded. Mafia work wasn’t as common anymore, its it’s not like it’s the 1930s anymore, but even Phil could tell you that the mafia was still up and running, just quietly. 

“I’ve been under with the Romanov family for about six months now, finally worked my way up to be trusted with them when, a few weeks ago, I learn that they’re getting their personal drug shipments from one of the biggest rings in the city and they don’t even pretend to hide it.” 

“And who’s that?” Phil asked. 

“Swordsman. We have a rough sketch of the guy but not much else. The top of the ring is small, two or three guys at most and they use kids for runners, Swordsman is never out on the streets.”

Just as Phil is about to respond they hear Steve come out of the bathroom and both Phil and Bucky twist around to stare at him, Steve looks between the two of them and the cook who’s busy at the grill and pulls out his phone, shaking it a little in his hands before walking outside. 

“So, who do your bosses want now, Romanov or the drug dealer?” 

“We have enough on Romanov to put him away for at least 30 years but if we go through him and get Swordsman we take out over half the illegal drugs on the streets, who do you think they want? We traded Romanov his freedom for everything he knows about the guy two nights ago.”

Just as Bucky is about to continue talking Steve comes back into the diner, pushing his way into the booth, “Okay, that’s enough. I don’t know where you are in the story but I can only play candy crush for so long and I’m starving.” 

On cue the waitress comes by with their food, and as quick as Phil had gotten draw into Bucky’s story he’s just as quickly drawn in to his stack of pancakes doused in blueberry syrup. 

Halfway through their silent meal Bucky’s phone starts to buzz from his pocket, “Dammit, its 5am, who calls this early?” 

Phil and Steve by no means stop shoveling food into their mouths but they do slow down, looking at Bucky’s face as he gives brief one-word answers to the person on the other end of the line. 

After about a minute Bucky hung up and got a few more forkfuls of eggs into his mouth, “I gotta go, Romanov wants me for a meeting.” 

“Bucky!” Steve stage-whispered, looking around quickly while Bucky sighed and pulled out a ten dollar bill to put on the table to cover his order and the tip. 

“Stevie, it’s fine, Phil already knows and you know waitress’s in New York are the best at keeping secrets. I’ll call you later. See ya, Phil!” 

Steve pushed his plate across the table to lay his head down, “You two are going to kill me.” 

Phil continued eating, almost cheerfully, as Steve pretended to ignore the rest of his food.

\--

Clint has to go make a run to the Romanov family. 

Again. 

Not that he’s complaining, not really. Making a run to the Romanov family is typically a fine situation to be in. The guys are decent, the walk is nice when the weather is good, and Natasha is there. 

Not this time though. Natasha is currently at school, which is also where Clint should be except the fact that he was rudely awoken by Jacques as the sun was barely rising this morning and was told he was making a run. Now. 

(“But you gave him enough to get him through two weeks, what, like, three days ago?” Clint mumbled under the covers, trying to pull them back over his head. 

Jacques wasn’t having any of it; he’d already tossed a pair of jeans on top of Clint and was tugging the blankets the opposite way that Clint was. Clint moaned once more and sat up in bed, his eyes still closed against the light pouring in from the hallway. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Jacques said, giving the blankets one last tug, “He calls, we deliver. You can make the run today, Maria is already asleep from her shift, you know she won’t wake up.”)

So now, when Clint should be sitting in his English class or whatever, he’s standing outside the Romanov house in Brighton Beach, waiting for someone to answer the door. 

Natasha always answers the door on time. 

After waiting for almost three minutes the door finally opened to reveal the man from a few nights ago. The one Clint had never seen around before and who was allowed to stay in the office when Clint and Natasha’s father were doing their trade. 

The guy looks tired and not as put together as the other night but he’s awake enough to glare at Clint. Good, as long as Clint is suffering everyone else should too. 

“Mr. Romanov called,” Clint tried, “I’m here to deliver a package.” 

The glare continued, “Shouldn’t you be in school?” 

“Shouldn’t you be letting me in so I can give your boss what he wants and we can all get on with our day?” 

“James,” a voice called from behind the doorway, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Mr. Romanov, “Just let the boy in.” 

Clint slid past the man, past James, while giving him a shit-eating grin. 

It seemed that the only people awake and present in the house were new-guy-James, Mr. Romanov, and Clint. Typically there were at least five or six other people floating around but Clint had never been sent on a run this early in the morning. 

Clint approached the couch, setting his backpack down and standing next to it, “Swordsman said you called, needed an emergency delivery.”

Mr. Romanov nodded and opened his hand, waiting for Clint to fish the paper bag out of his backpack. While this was going on James had walked over to lean against the wall. 

Clint rocked on the balls of his feet while Romanov checked over what was in the bag, waiting for his money so he can take it back to Jacques and go back to sleep. 

After a few moments Romanov tucked the bag away in his jacket and pulls out his own paper bag, “That should be all of what’s owed. I also have a message for our friend.” 

Clint gave the money a cursory glance and put it in his bag, shrugging, “Sure.”

“I would like for you to tell him this will be the last time I will call on him for a delivery.”

Clint blinked, and stopped zipping up his backpack, “You know he’s gonna wanna know why.” 

Romanov sighed and leaned back on the couch, “Drugs are bad for you, you know that, boy.” 

“Yeah, and my dad was a drunk, what else is new. That’s not going to be good enough for him, you know that.” 

If Clint was going to guess how fast Romanov could get off the couch and put his hands around Clint’s throat, his guess wouldn’t have been less than two seconds, which is how Clint finds himself with his toes barely touching the ground, his eyes level with Romanov’s. 

“My message could be your dead body,” he muttered. 

James hadn’t moved from his spot against the wall but Clint can see him move to close his hands into fists, ready to move. 

Out of self-preservation Clint had put his hands on Romanov’s wrists to hold himself up but Romanov had dropped him as quickly as he’d picked him up and was shaking Clint’s hands off his wrists. 

“Swordsman has always come through for me, for years he’s done well but he’s flown to close to the sun and people are noticing. Tell him I don’t like to be noticed.” 

Clint nodded at the ground, rubbing his neck and taking a few steps back, “Okay, I’ll tell him.” 

Clint can barely see Romanov nod to James, “James, walk our friend out, please.” 

Clint is still rubbing at his neck when James brings his backpack over. Clint slowly pulled the straps over his shoulders and walked out of the living room and to the doorway next to the older man. Clint is about to reach for the door handle before James stops him, “Kid, be careful out there, okay?” 

Clint nods at the ground again, going for the handle before James elbows him, “I’m serious. You know this stuff is dangerous, watch out for yourself.” 

Clint finally looks up, “I got it covered, man, okay?” 

James gives him one final look before letting him go out the door and down the steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go [here](http://showme-thesun.tumblr.com) if you want to see my tumblr. I don't post a ton but it's funny sometimes? And if you sent me prompts I might write stuff for you? Possibly? :)


	3. Chapter 3

Clint doesn’t head to school after he walks out of the Romanov house but he doesn’t go back home either. 

Instead he took one of the few five-dollar bills from the paper bag and bough a few snacks from the bodega near the subway stop, Jacques’ll be more pissed about losing his best costumer than he will about the fact that Clint borrowed some money from him. 

He bought a sprite, a blueberry muffin and a package of gummy bears, pocketing the twenty-two cents he got back in change before setting off, past the stairs leading to the subway, walking south a few blocks to the boardwalk. 

The day goes by slowly, Clint spending most of the time watching tourists pass him on the boardwalk in their ‘I heart NY’ t-shirts, dragging screaming and tired children along behind them. Clint changed his spot every thirty minutes or so to avoid getting noticed by the police that occasionally patrol down by the beach. 

After the lunch rush Clint heads back for the subway, jumping the turnstile and sliding onto the train headed back towards Manhattan. After a few train switches and another jumped turnstile he’s emerging out on 96th street, a few blocks away from the private school Natasha’s father spends over $30,000 a year for her to attend. 

Clint’s high school is only about two miles away but their worlds couldn’t possibly be more different. 

When the bell rings to dismiss the students here they file out in neat lines, some of them head down the street in small groups but most of them get into shiny black SUVs or BMWs. Natasha is one of the few walking in a group with two other girls, their uniforms perfectly pressed and hair in clean ponytails. 

Clint doesn’t bother to look down at his old jeans and dusty sneakers before running across the street during a break in the traffic. 

“Natasha!” He called, getting the attention of her friends. Natasha turns around last and sighs when she sees Clint. She whispers to her friends and they nervously stand rooted in the spot while Natasha walked up to Clint, standing in his personal space. 

“What?” 

“I’m sure this is creepy, in fact, I know it is. But a few weeks ago I saw your school sweater in the living room and I live like half a mile away so I figured if I ever needed to I could come over here to see you,” Clint lets it all out in one breath. 

“You’re right,” she shoves Clint in the center of his chest, “it is creepy.” 

“Look. I just, “Clint stops and counts to ten before starting again, “Your dad is cutting off business ties with Swordsman.” 

“And how is that my problem?” she steps closer to Clint, making like she’s going to grab him by the neck like her father did not eight hours ago. 

“It’s not. I don’t think. I was just… Do you know why? He wouldn’t tell me and I can’t go back to Swordsman with a bunch of nothing.” 

Natasha looks back at her friends for a moment and sighs, “I’m not involved in what he does. But. There’s a lot of people poking their noses in places where they don’t belong and your guy is about to be right in the heart of it, that’s all I know, okay?” 

Clint looks around the street for a second, as if men with guns are going to come jumping out of the bushes at any second, “What kind of people, Natasha?” 

“I don’t know,” she mumbles. 

Clint huffs, “Yes you do. What kind of people? Other dealers? Cops?” 

“I. Don’t. Know.” Natasha punctuates each word with a pointed finger in Clint’s ribs, “It’s not good news for anyone, that’s all I know about them,” Natasha steps back and straightens her sweater, “I have to go to dance class, if I ever see you outside of my school again I’ll tell my father, understand?” 

Clint nods at the concrete, not looking up until he’s sure Natasha and her friends have crossed the street. 

Clint futzes around for a little bit longer, sitting in Central park to walk the runners, skipping rocks in the pond until a security guards gets a little testy, before he decides to go back home. 

Maria is still home when he opens the door and toes off his shoes, “ _Hola, Maria._ ”

“ _Hola, Joven. Qué tal?_ ” she calls from the kitchen. There’s no sign of Jacques, he’s probably asleep, hopefully. 

Clint doesn’t know much Spanish beyond this, despite Maria’s efforts to teach him so he switches quickly into English, “It’s good, how is work going?” 

“Work is work, I’m making you two some pasta so you won’t go out and get that crap junk food from the store.” 

Clint smiles and slides his backpack onto the couch in the living room before settling himself at the kitchen table, watching Maria as she stirs the pot on the stove. 

They sit like this a lot. Maria and Clint usually don’t have much to talk about and it’s not like Clint could tell her what’s going on with Jacques’ drug trade, she likes to pretend that she’s ignorant to those things even though Clint has definitely seen her high off his personal stash after bad nights at the hospital. 

It’s not dinnertime, not even close, but when the pasta is ready she puts some into two bowls and sits across from Clint at the table while they eat. She tells him about a patient that got run over by a bus, and another patient that comes in at least once a week, this week it was because of a hangnail. Clint tells her about the math test that he got a B- on and reminds her that parent teacher conferences are soon because she likes to try and make it to those when she can. 

Almost as if he knows, Jacques comes stumbling out of the bedroom when they’re putting their dishes up. He has a pair of jeans on but the belt isn’t even done up and he’s not wearing a shirt, he was definitely asleep. He moves past Clint and slings an arm around Maria, kissing her cheek; “I made up a bowl for you in the fridge, _bombón._ ” 

Jacques doesn’t say anything but he does slide his hand down to grab her butt before he swats him away, “I have to go to work now, be good, both of you!” 

Clint nods and lets Maria kiss him on the forehead and waits for Jacques to walk her to the front door. 

“Where’s the money?” 

“On the couch.”

“Did he say anything?” 

Clint continues staring at the table, ignores the sounds of Jacques quietly counting out the cash, “Uh, he said this was the last time he would call you.” 

There’s no sound coming from the living room for a long time, Clint knows better than to get up from his seat at the table. 

When Jacques comes into the kitchen his belt is done up and he’s holding the bag of money, “Excuse me?” 

Clint clears his throat, “He said some people were sniffing around, he doesn’t want to get caught with you on his payroll.” 

That isn’t exactly what he said, but it’s close enough. 

“Who’s sniffing around?” 

Clint shrugs, “Didn’t say, just that they were dangerous.” 

Jacques is silent again, standing where Maria had been sitting while they were eating, his fists going white from the pressure of clenching them around the bag. 

“You been running your mouth? I knew I couldn’t trust you.” 

His voice is calm but Clint knows better, knows that he should look for something to defend himself, “I didn’t, you know I know better than to talk about your shit, even with someone like Romanov. He just said people are sniffing around, dangerous people, and they’re looking for you.” 

Clint is quick, but he’s not quick enough to get out of the way of the fist Jacques lets swing at his face. 

He dodges the second one, he can at least hold on to that.

\--

“Hey, I didn’t know we were floormates,” Phil shifted his grocery bags into his left arm as he pulled his house keys out of his pocket. 

The kid from the day Phil was moving in was sitting out in the hallway, against the wall on Phil’s side, his elbows propped up on his knees and a textbook open on the floor between his feet. 

He looked up and blinked at Phil before laughing and running a hand over his face, “No, I actually live on the fourth floor, it’s just too loud up there right now, can’t even hear myself think.” 

Now that Phil can pay attention to anything other than the Chicken Parmesan he was planning on cooking for dinner he can hear the dull thud of the bass that must belong to the speakers of one of his upstairs neighbors.

“If it makes you feel any better the people next door to me blast that same kind of crap too, they must be buddies,” Phil smiles when the teenager lets out a laugh and slides his textbook out from between his feet to sit cross-legged on the ground. 

Its when the kid looks up from his book that Phil notices there’s a purple bruise up high on his cheekbone, not quite a black eye, but it’s pretty new, Phil is pretty sure he didn’t see that when he was moving in. Phil schools his face into a neutral setting as the teenager shrugs his shoulders. 

“Too bad it’s not my neighbors, it’s my foster dad. He plays it when he’s pretending to work out,” the kid rolls his eyes, “He’ll be done in a little bit. I never caught your name the other day, I’m Clint.” 

Phil shuffles his grocery bags again to reach down and shake hands with Clint, “Phil, what are you studying?” 

Clint looks at the open textbook, now in the center of the hallway and shrugs, “I think it’s algebra, but I’m really not sure, I think it’s turned into physics while I wasn’t paying attention.” 

Phil is about to respond when the music gets suddenly louder and a man shouts down the stairwell, “Clint! Get up here!” 

The man somehow manages to be heard over the music and Clint does his best to hide his wince from Phil as the door slams shut and the music is muffled again, “That’d be him.” 

Clint moves to close his textbook and organize himself before standing up while Phil just stares at his bag of groceries. 

“Hey, I don’t mean for it to be weird or anything but my apartment is pretty quiet most of the time so I mean. You know. If your foster dad is blasting that music again or whatever… you know where I am.”

Clint huffs a laugh, “I mean… That’s a little weird. But…”

The music blares loud again, the door upstairs slamming against the wall, “Clint! What the fuck are you doing? Get up here!” 

Clint sighs and turns his head up to the fourth floor, “Alright, man! I heard you!” 

Clint smiles at Phil and moves to start walking towards the staircase, “Uh. Thanks for the offer, I gotta…” He throws his hands towards the stairs. 

“Sure, see you around,” Phil responds, waiting until he hears the slam of the door upstairs before he goes into his apartment. 

\--

When all is said and done Phil has intentionally made more than enough chicken parmesan and before he’s even thinking about it he’s packing it up in Tupperware to bring it down to Steve and anyone else who’s on at the station.

So what if he’s becoming a station wife, it’s fine. He’s got nothing else to do. 

Steve is more than thankful when Phil slides a heated up pile of chicken, sauce and cheese across the desk in his office. 

“This wasn’t the only thing you did today, right?” Steve mumbles around a mouthful of chicken. 

Phil shakes his head, “No, it wasn’t. I went to the VA for a meeting, and then the grocery store. I even met one of my neighbors.” 

Steve raises his eyebrows but doesn’t stop shoveling food into his mouth. Steve doesn’t really have any reason to bother Phil about his social patterns in the week since he’s moved into his own apartment. The only thing Steve does is go to the work and the gym; Phil has been at least seven different places since last Tuesday. 

Phil plays with his phone while Steve finishes off the Tupperware, almost whining for more before giving Phil a sidelong glance, “You didn’t just do this out of the kindness of your heart.” 

Phil taps his phone a few more times before he answers, “You remember that kid who ran into us last week when we were moving?” 

Steve nods.

“I think he’s in trouble.”

Steve scoffs, “He’s a teenager in Harlem, of course he’s in trouble.” 

“No,” Phil sighs, “like real trouble. He was sitting in my hallway with a bruised face earlier tonight, he’s got a foster dad who’s a huge asshole from what little I know about the guy. I don’t know much but it’s not like you're busy right now, I was wondering if you could put your police resources to good use for me.” 

“It’s illegal for me to look up information on a minor until I’m doing a domestic violence call,” Steve tries. 

“Isn’t someone required to look into each child abuse claim?” Phil asks, looking at the computer screen, the sparkly screen saver dancing multiple colors across the screen, “I’m here, I’m making a claim, just look into it, please?” 

Steve glares at Phil for almost two full minutes. Then he shakes the mouse to wake his computer up and closes and opens a few files before pushing Phil off the desk and into the chair across from him, “This is against my better judgment but I know you’ll never shut up about this. Okay. Tell me what you know.” 

Phil gives him what he knows, which isn’t a lot. Clint’s name, he doesn’t know his last name, what he thinks his age might be, the front of his textbook had his school number in large black print. No, Phil hadn’t seen his foster dad, but he's sure heard him. 

Steve sits silently for at least twenty minutes, poking at the keyboard and clicking around the screen with his mouse. Phil opens a game on his phone and plays while Steve continues searching. 

Finally, Steve’s printer comes to life and a few sheets of paper slowly come out. He pulls the first sheet out from the tray and passes it to Phil, “There’s only two kids that even have Clint in their name in the New York City foster care system so I figured this one was him, am I right?” 

In the picture Clint is younger, but it’s definitely him. Phil nods. 

Steve holds on to the rest of the papers, “Showing you that top paper is bad enough, once you’re done I’m going to pass this off to CPS and you’re going to go home, okay?” 

Phil nods again, absently, staring at what little information is on the paper. 

Clinton Francis Barton, just turned seventeen, has an older brother who’s been out of the picture for almost a decade. Parents deceased. Three foster homes since then, the summary mentions that he is ‘charming’ but also a ‘troublemaker’ and a ‘danger to himself and others on rare occasions’. 

Phil hands the paper back over and lets Steve stuff the papers into a folder, clipping a notecard to the top, scribbling a few things before signing it at the bottom and putting a date on it. As he’s finishing up Bucky bursts into the office, one of Phil’s Tupperware containers in his hand. 

“Phil, you’re seriously the best cook, how did you even have time to learn to cook?” 

Phil smiles and shrugs, “There’s nothing to do in the desert, gotta find something to do, how’s your case?” 

Bucky groans around a piece of chicken and plops into a chair in the corner, “Dread and despair, Phil Coulson. The guy is a ghost and so are his runners. After we had Romanov cut ties we tried to follow the kid he sent but we lost him in the subway, I don’t even think he was trying to shake anyone, he’s just quick.” 

Steve had covered his ears when Bucky started talking, dropping the folder onto his desk. 

Bucky was still talking, going on about what their next course of action was but stopped when he noticed the folder, “I see you two are up to something though.” 

Steve attempted to snatch up the folder but Bucky was quick, holding it balanced between his free hand and his container of food, “Either tell me or I’ll go through this folder, you know I will.” 

“You two,” Steve mumbled, “Are going to be the reason we end up in the police misconduct lawsuit of the century!” 

“I think my teenage neighbor is being abused by his foster dad, I asked Steve to look him up.” 

Bucky waggles his eyebrows first at Phil and then at this folder, Phil shrugs, Steve groans and lets his head hit the desk. 

Bucky opens the file and doesn’t even make it past the first page, “You’re sure this is your neighbor?” 

Phil nods, “Yep, seen him in person. He’s older now, than in that photo but that’s him. Why?” 

Bucky flips quickly through the other pages, Phil doesn’t even know what could be on those pages but Bucky’s face scrunches up, Phil tries again, “Why wouldn’t this be my neighbor?” 

Bucky closes the folder and gives a glance to Steve and then to Phil before sitting down on the edge of the desk. 

“Uh. I’m pretty sure your neighbor is the runner we were trying to follow.” 

\--

Phil didn’t mean to turn into a citizen informant in his first week of freedom from the doctors and therapists at the VA but Phil is pretty good at falling into things that weren’t the original plan. 

Bucky and his team couldn’t be sure that Clint’s foster dad was Swordsman but they could be sure he had power. 

Steve had forwarded the file to CPS and got a return message in less than two days, “Minor is safe, no issues detected, don’t bother us again” was the general idea of the message. Two days is barely enough time for a typical social worker to make it out for a home visit, even Phil knows that. 

Phil had told Bucky that he gave Clint express permission to come visit but he wasn’t sure he ever would. Bucky still reminded Phil every chance he got to text or call if Clint did show up. Bucky had informed Phil that he and Clint had met before and maybe Clint would be more willing to talk to him in a safe place, IE Phil’s apartment. It seemed sort of shitty to essentially turn Clint in, but when Clint knocked on Phil’s door at eight in the evening almost a week and a half later Phil didn’t feel so bad that his phone was burning a hole in his pocket before the door even opened.

Even with the hoodie bunched up around his neck Phil could see the outline of fingers on Clint’s skin. The bruise on his face has healed but that seemed to have been traded with dark bruises covering his knuckles, dark lines jutting out to create a spider-web of bruises up his hand. Clint is holding two textbooks and a notebook close to his side.

He looks hopeful but also weary of Phil, “You mentioned that I could come study over here? Like. I mean, you’re probably not a pedophile, right? My foster dad has a bunch of his friends over and I’ve got a huge test soon,” 

Phil holds his hand up to stop Clint in the middle of his running sentence, “Yeah, come in, I just finished dinner but I have some extras if you’re hungry?” he offers, walking back into his apartment, listening for Clint to shut the door. 

Against what are probably Clint’s instincts, Phil can tell, Clint takes of his shoes in the doorway and makes his way over to the couch, “Uh, I mean, if it’s not a problem, sure. Food sounds good.”

Phil goes into the kitchen to re-heat a bowl of stir-fry and text Bucky. It’s short.

-Clint is here, looks a little beat up but otherwise fine. Doing hw, should be here awhile.-

When Phil walks into the section he’d deemed the living room Clint already has his books spread out and he’s chewing on the end of a mechanical pencil. Phil drops the bowl far enough away from the books that it won’t spill and sits down on the couch. Clint had taken his wooden chair on the other side of the table and he muttered a thank you before taking one bite and going back to his book. 

Phil distracts himself with the muted tv show on in the background for a few minutes before his phone buzzes. 

-Cool, keep him there. I’ll be over in 30min, maybe?-

Phil sends back an ‘okay’ and settles in, staring past Clint to try and figure out what was going on in the show he was watching before Clint showed up. 

Clint gives focusing on his textbook a valiant effort before he can no longer ignore the food in front of him. Phil tries not to smile to himself when Clint closes his eyes after taking a bite. 

Clint slides his chair to the side of the table to get a better view of the tv and continues shoveling food into his mouth. Phil turns the sound up and they sit together for a minute, eyes glazed over by the screen. 

“Who won the fight?” Phil asks, nonchalant, eyes still on the people running around on screen. 

Clint stops, the fork still in his mouth for just a second before finishing his bite and looking down at his knuckles, “Not sure, to be honest. The other guy is still uglier so I think I won no matter what.” 

Phil laughs and they fall into silence again until Phil’s phone buzzes. 

-About 5min out, still good?-

Phil responds.

-Yep, see you soon.-

Clint had put the bowl down, having finished all the food, and was moving back to get in front of his books when Phil took his chance. 

“Hey, I’ve got a friend coming over in a few minutes, he’s picking something up, is that okay?” 

Clint is back to chewing on his pen and he glances up at Phil, “It’s your place, dude, I don’t care.” 

Phil nods and tries to convince himself that Clint won’t freak out the second he sees Bucky come through the door. 

Everything will be fine. Phil repeats this to himself until he hears the knock on the door. 

Now or never.

Everything will be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go [here](http://showme-thesun.tumblr.com) if you want to see my tumblr. I don't post a ton but it's funny sometimes? And if you sent me prompts I might write stuff for you? Possibly? :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm here! I'm sorry! It's finished! Enjoy!

After Ramanov pulled his business with Jacques, Jacques lost two more clients the next day. Three more within the next week. 

Clint couldn’t do anything to convince Jacques that it wasn’t him. According to Jacques he pays Buck Chisholm too much for him to be a snitch so it must be Clint, Clint is a stupid kid who doesn’t know the value of a bed and warm meals according to Jacques. 

Jacques is wrong, obviously, but nothing Clint can say can change how Jacques feels about the situation so the only thing Clint can do is defend himself. When Jacques threw a punch, so did Clint. When Jacques wrestled Clint to the ground, Clint kicked back until Jacques was just as bruised as he was. 

After a phone call with another unsatisfied client, Jacques shoved Clint towards the apartment door, spitting and hissing about how much space Clint takes up, and Clint snatched his backpack from the doorway to limp down the stairs to Phil’s apartment. 

When James walked in through Phil’s front door the first thing Clint thought was that he shouldn’t have taken his shoes off when he came in (He’ll blame Maria and how she spent the past two years enforcing her ‘no shoes in the house’ rule later, when he has time to sit down and ponder those types of things). The second thing Clint thought was… 

What the hell is James-from-the-Romanov-family doing in Phil’s apartment? 

There were a few moments of shifting his glance from Phil to James, sizing up the competition and deciding who might be the biggest threat. Phil was looking at Clint with a mostly apologetic look on his face, like he wanted to melt into the floor instead of be standing between the two of them. James looked like he was ready for Clint to try and get past him.

Clint made a break for it, to try and grab his shoes and make it out of the blocked front door. 

Clint wasn’t fast enough. 

Clint got to his left shoe just as James grabbed Clint by the forearm and pulled him back up so they’d be face to face. Phil was standing to the side of them, his hands up in a placating sort of way, his mouth open ready to talk, but no words were coming out. 

Clint was about to throw the biggest tantrum known to man about how fucked up this is but James had his other hand on Clint’s chin, forcing Clint to bare the bruises Jacques had left there last night after a rough meeting with the few investors that were left. 

James let go after a second and moved to hold Clint in place; giving another glance over his knuckles and the spider web of purple and blue skin Clint earned trying to fight back. If James had x-ray vision he’d be able to see the bruises that were blooming over Clint’s ribs from that same fight. 

Instead, James held Clint’s stare, “Who did this? I told you to be careful, didn’t I?” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Clint tried to pull his arms back, James was much stronger than Clint gave him credit for, “And we’ve met, what, two times? You don't even know me.” 

“I know your name is Clint Barton,” James, still giving Clint the staredown of the century, “And I know you work for Swordsman, I want to take him down.” 

Clint couldn’t help but shake his head, “Romanov is gonna kill you,” Clint laughed and shook his head again, “Better yet, if Swordsman finds out about you, he’s gonna kill you.”

Not to mention the fact that Jacques will kill Clint when he finds out that one of Romanov’s men managed to follow him back here, looking to take down the whole operation. The only saving grace right now is that no one in this room seems to know that Jacques is Swordsman except for Clint. 

“He’s not, I’m the only thing keeping him alive right now, me and my friends,” James let go of Clint’s left arm to reach into his pocket and reveal…

A police badge. 

Romanov had a cop working in his house. A cop that knew where Clint lived (in the general sense) and knew that he worked for Swordsman and was currently just a floor away from him. 

Phil must’ve recognize the look on Clint’s face because he raises his hand, like he’s in a classroom, and opens his mouth to speak but Clint beat him to the punch.

“Phil, why are you friends with this guy?”

Clint and James were now both staring at Phil, Clint could practically hear the gears turning in Phil’s head as he tried to figure out what to say. 

“Clint, this is Bucky, he’s a cop.”

Bucky?

James… Bucky… Whatever. Bucky was a stupid name. Still had his badge out. Clint hadn’t seen a police badge in a long time but it actually did look pretty legitimate. This is even worse, not only was one of Romanov’s men way too close for comfort but he’s also a cop. 

“Yeah, I can tell. Why is a cop in your apartment?” 

“How about we sit down and explain everything, alright?” 

Clint shook his head, the only thing he can do, “No, you can tell me right here.” 

James and Phil shared a long glance before James backed off and let go of Clint, still standing in the doorway, like Clint would be stupid to try and make another pass at it. 

“I’ve been under with the Romanov family for over six months now. When I found out that he was dealing with Swordsman my boss said I needed to find out more. I knew that I had to be present for a meeting but he didn’t tell me that Swordsman would send a courier. When you came in that first time we changed targets. My boss told me to convince Romanov to give us everything on Swordsman in exchange for his freedom if he cut ties.”

James looked over at Phil again, who shrugged and leaned against the couch. 

James sighed and continued, “Romanov said he didn’t have anything on Swordsman. Calls from a different burner phone every time and only ever sends you,” he gestured vaguely at Clint, “Said the highest up he’s ever met in person is Buck Chisholm and even then it was a shady back alley meeting, couldn’t describe the guy.” 

“So you convinced my neighbor to let you stake him out until I showed up? That’s a little creepy, dude,” Clint crossed his arms and cocked his hip, like how Natasha does when she denies Clint whatever he asks. 

“Bucky and I are friends, Clint,” Clint whipped his head around to look at Phil.

“The other day, when I saw you in the hallway I was worried about you. I brought it up to Bucky and he recognized you when we looked you up. What are you doing mixed up in stuff like this?” 

At that, Clint scoffed. James was still in the doorway but Clint went for it anyway, attempting to elbow past the bigger man and get to the doorknob. Clint had his hand on it but he couldn’t twist it, there wasn’t enough space and before he could try again James was holding both his wrists. 

“Let go, man! This is assault!” Clint yelled, yelling hurt his ribs but maybe the old crazy cat lady who lived down the hall would call the cops; she’s done it before. Clint continued fighting, trying to loosen the man’s grip. 

After a little bit longer Clint stopped, huffing and puffing, but James still wouldn’t let go. 

“What’s going on, Clint?” Phil. 

“You don’t wanna know, man, you really don’t.”

“We do,” James mumbled, taking in a deep breath, “Tell us what’s going on.” 

Clint let his eyes drift from James to his shoes in the doorway and then back, not quick enough for the older man not to notice. James picked up Clint’s shoes and dug his hand back into his pocket, “Here, I hold onto your shoes, you hold onto my badge, that way no one leaves, alright?” 

James had his badge out, flat in the palm of his hand, in front of Clint. Clint gave his shoes one last glance before grabbing the badge, tucking it into his back pocket. 

“I’m not a junkie, okay?” Clint muttered, crossing his arms across his chest. 

“We don’t think you are, Clint,” Phil responded. 

“I’ve never even tried any of the stuff Swordsman has me deliver. I mean, he’d kill me if I did but also it just seems like a bad deal, y’know?” 

Clint dropped his arms and clapped his hands on his thighs for a moment, “Okay. So. I’ve been in foster care for a while, I moved to the family I live with a few years ago and, I mean, it’s not great but it’s the best I’ve had so far. My foster mom is great; she comes to all my school shit and makes me dinner and stuff. I didn’t wanna screw it up so I started doing some stuff to keep my foster dad happy, keep him happy so I wouldn’t go back into the system.”

“First it was just petty stuff, you know? Keep an eye out for the cops, stand at this corner and give this note to some guy, easy stuff. Then he wanted me to make deliveries and how am I gonna say no when this is the first place I’ve lived where the food is good and people are actually worried about me?” 

“It’s been fine, I swear,” Clint looked down at his bruised hand and tried to ignore the twinge in his side from his ribs, “Until Romanov decided to cut ties. It’s just… been rough around the house since then.”

Clint crossed his arms again and shrugged, “I’m just trying to make it to 18, alright? Here is the best place for me to do that.”

Phil didn’t speak; just keep looking between Clint and his stupid cop friend. Why did things like this always happen to Clint? Why can’t he just have a regular life for once?

“Clint,” James started, Clint’s shoes still in his hand, “Is your foster dad Swordsman?” 

Clint’s glare was fierce, angry and terrified all at once. James was waiting for an answer and so was Phil, “What if he is?” 

“If he is, I call my boss and we take him down,” James stated matter-of-factly. 

Phil had been silent during most of the conversation, leaning to sit on the armrest of the couch watching this all go down. Clint still felt a little betrayed by the man he thought he could trust but Phil now looked like he had something to say. 

“Bucky, we could protect Clint, right? There has to be something we could do.” 

James… Bucky… Whatever. He sighed and looked between Clint and Phil. Clint cast his eyes down to the ground. There isn’t anywhere Clint would be safe in this city if Jacques found out that it really was Clint who sold him out. Clint could try and stay with Maria, but she’d be the first person Jacques would call on and Maria would probably get caught up in this and there’s no way the system would let Clint stay with her after this was all over. Clint’s best bet would be hitting the road and avoiding getting sucked into another foster system in a different state. 

“If you take him down here, in the evenings I can be out of your hair and Maria, my foster mom, she’ll be at work.” 

“Kid,” James reached out with his free hand, “We can help you, we can. We can put you in protective custody; Swordsman won’t be able to touch you.”

Clint shrugged and walked over to where his schoolbooks were. He piled them all into one arm and pulled James’s police badge out of his pocket to give it back and return it for his shoes.

“Sure. Okay. Just, as long as you take him down in the evening it’s good, alright? It’s normally just him in the house then,” James handed Clint his shoes and Clint set his books on the ground to use both hands to slide them onto his feet, “I’ll see you guys around, okay?” 

Clint doesn’t hear what they say after him, he’s already planning his escape route out of the city in his head. 

 

\--

Phil is at home when the takedown happens. It’s been over a week since Clint and Bucky had the showdown in his apartment and if there wasn’t that nagging feeling in the back of his mind that something horrible was about to happen Phil would think his life is nearly perfect. 

Things at the VA have been going well, Steve has stopped asking if he should call Stark about his rent rates, and yesterday Phil found the perfect recipe for the next meal he’s going to bring to the station. 

It’s a Saturday, about three or four in the afternoon and Phil is just sitting down to watch the TV he finally bought when he hears a crash from the floor below him, like the door of the building being kicked in. Phil knows better than to go examine the danger until he hears the pounding of feet come up the stairs. 

Phil sighed and got up, checking the peephole before gradually opening the door. 

Only to have someone in full on tactical gear aim to shut the door back in Phil’s face. 

“Go back into your apartment, sir.” 

The door is slammed shut and Phil does his best to try and start a reality check. 

He’s in Harlem. Phil is in Harlem. Harlem is not a warzone. Phil is in Harlem, which isn’t a warzone so why are there men in tactical gear in Phil’s apartment building? 

It hits Phil like a ton of bricks. They’re here for Swordsman. They’re here for Swordsman and Clint is probably in the house. 

When Phil hears them kick in a door upstairs he dives for his phone and dials the only number he can think of. 

\--

“What the hell? I told you guys not to take him down when the kid was there!” Bucky shouted, lunging out of Steve’s patrol car and up the steps of the police station where the SWAT team were standing in various states of dress and undress in their uniforms. 

“Bucky, calm down,” Steve attempted from the driver’s side door of the patrol car. 

Bucky gave Steve half a second worth of a glance and turned his glare back on the officers in front of him, “No, I talked to the captain, he said you guys would wait!” Bucky shoved the shoulders of the closest SWAT officer to him, receiving his own shove in return. 

“Captain said to take him down ASAP, said it didn’t matter.” 

Bucky _growled_ at that and Steve finally made a move to subdue his friend, putting his hand gently on Bucky’s upper arm. 

Bucky didn’t shrug Steve’s hand off but he also doesn’t settle down, “Where’s Clint? Where’s the kid, was he at the house?” 

The SWAT officer that had pushed Bucky before scoffed, “The little brat? Yeah he was there, took him into custody too, if he’s lucky he’ll make it to juvie at Rikers”

Bucky stalked past the officer and into the building, Steve trailing behind him, glaring at the officers as he passed. 

“Where’s the kid?” Bucky shouted as he walked into the bullpen. 

Steve was still following Bucky at a close distance as Bucky tore through the police station looking for the captain. 

“Barnes! Why are you assaulting your fellow officers?” 

Bucky whipped himself around, almost hitting Steve in the face as the police captain walked in, being closely followed by the officer Bucky had ‘assaulted’. 

“You said you would wait until the kid… Until Clint wasn’t there. This was my case!” 

“Your case?” the captain repeated, as the officer behind him scoffed, “You handed over all of your research and information on the case and gave me control of the op and we couldn’t let Swordsman operate any longer. How did you even know that we went in?”

Bucky sighed and let himself fall against one of the desks in the bullpen, “Rogers has a friend who lives in that building, he called when your SWAT team was bumbling their way up the stairs and terrorizing innocent civilians.” 

The captain didn’t respond and Bucky was quick to peel himself off the side of the desk and start walking quickly across the office space, headed for the interrogation rooms.

\--

Despite all the illegal things Clint has been involved in he’d never been picked up by the cops, he was kind of hoping he would’ve made it though this whole fiasco without that happening. 

Obviously he was wrong.

Clint knew well enough that when they burst through the door and snatched him up by his shoulder and shouted ‘you have the right to remain silent’ he should take advantage of that right. 

When they pushed him to the floor and dug their knees into his back he didn’t say anything. 

When one of the men, hiding behind his SWAT issued helmet, pulled hard on his arms to yank him off the ground and informed Clint that he ‘would be spending the rest of his life with his pretty face behind bars’ he didn’t say anything. He spit on the man’s boots, but he didn’t say anything.

When they tossed him into the backseat of the car opposite the car Jacques was being forced into he didn’t say anything. 

When they pulled him from the holding cell and put him in an interrogation room with the meanest and roughest looking cop in the station he didn’t say anything either. He set his head down on top of his handcuffed wrists, using the hood of his hoodie as a pillow and did his best to ignore the spit that was landing on his face from the cop yelling at him. 

Clint is selectively deaf when it comes to yelling. 

After what had to have been at least an hour the door opened. Clint kept his eyes on a crack in the wall across the room. 

“Get out.” 

The cop stopped yelling just long enough to hiss, “Barnes, this isn’t your interrogation.” 

“Get. Out.” 

The two men went silent. Clint kept his head down. 

After a minute Clint could see the dark-wash jeans of the cop walking away and being replaced by James-or-Bucky-from-Romanov’s-house’s face. 

Clint turned his head, slightly entertained by the sigh James emitted. 

James sat down on the ground. 

“I don’t control the SWAT team. I told them not to take Swordsman down at the house, they didn’t listen to me.” 

Clint shrugged and tried to reorganize his arms, the handcuffs jangling along with him. 

“I’ve been talking with the prosecutor all week, if you write a confession of all the stuff that happened they might be able to get you out of here without anything on your record, add a few more charges on Swordsman to keep him in jail for a long time.” 

James is holding out a handful of lined paper, a pen in his other hand, “We’ve got a safe house here in the city that houses minors. After we’re done I’ll take you over there myself and make sure everything is okay.” 

Clint lifted his head off the table and leaned back in the chair, giving James the chance to put the paper and the pen on the table and pull out the keys for the handcuffs. 

“What do I write?” 

James finished unlocking the handcuffs and tucked them into his back pocket, “Start at the beginning. Write everything.”

\--

Phil was on his fourth cup of coffee when Bucky came out from the back of the police station, winding his way through the desks in the bullpen to get to the front where Phil was sitting. 

Phil went to stand up but Bucky gave him the ‘sit back down’ gesture and Phil slide back down into his seat.

“Swordsman, Jacques, whatever his name is, is still being interrogated. Clint is finishing his confession.” 

Bucky raised his hands in defense before Phil could even question what has been said, “A signed and detailed confession will be enough for us to let him go and for the prosecutor to keep this off Clint’s record for good. He was in the middle of finishing his seventh page when I came out here to find you.”

Bucky sat down next to Phil and stretched himself out in the chair, “Where’d Steve go?” 

Phil shrugged, “Not sure, last I saw of him he was yelling and cussing up a storm on your behalf down on the other side of the station.” 

Bucky’s eyes were closed but there was a small smile on his face and he was nodded to himself. 

Phil and Bucky sat in silence for a while, the faint sounds of Steve shouting in the distance somewhere in the building flowing over their heads. Phil was taking one of the last sips of his coffee when he spotted Clint and a plain clothed officer walking towards them. Phil dug his elbows into Bucky’s side to wake him up. 

“Hey, Clint,” Phil set his cup down and stood up. Clint wasn’t handcuffed and for all the noise Phil had heard throughout the apartment Clint didn’t look near as beat up as Phil thought he would be, still, “you okay?” 

Clint nodded, “I’m not supposed to tell you where we’re going but I’m sure James… Bucky…” Clint paused and looked at Bucky, shrugged to get a smile out of the older man, and started again, “I’m sure he’s got the phone number. You could call them. Just. I mean.” 

Clint ducked his head and Phil nodded, putting his hand on Clint’s shoulder, “I’ll get Bucky to give me the number. Bring you guys some dinner next week, maybe?” 

Clint nodded at the floor and Bucky saved everyone from the situation. 

“Alright, Jones, you got your car? Let’s get out of here.” 

The officer next to Clint, Jones, nodded and started for the door. Clint fell in step behind him and Bucky clapped Phil on the shoulder before following behind them. 

Phil wanted so badly to drop back down into the chair he’d been sitting in but he could hear Steve’s screaming get louder. Phil isn’t friends with this idiot for nothing. 

Phil headed across the office to save Steve from himself. As usual.


End file.
